


Fiona's Apple

by idyll



Category: Burn Notice, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-06
Updated: 2007-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just so much shameless threesome porn and is so very heavily slanted in the direction of Burn Notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiona's Apple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostrunner7](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ghostrunner7), [Pouncer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouncer/gifts).



For as well as Michael knows Fiona--which is relatively well considering that many of her ex-boyfriends were never even aware of what she did for a living--sometimes she leaves him floundering.

"It'll be fun," she whispers in his ear.

Her breath is scented with fruit daiquiris, which she's been drinking most of the day and evening. It's a rather...fanciful drink for Fi, who's always been proud of the way she can drink any man under the table and still walk a straight line. Michael's not sure what significance her choice of drink has on their current situation and he is, in fact, tired of contemplating it.

"Fi. Please. Help me out." He sets his hands on her shoulders and looks at her pleadingly. "Is this something you actually want, or is it another test?"

She looks slightly insulted. "Test? Michael, I've never--"

"Never?" Michael interrupts, sardonic and straining to maintain his patience.

"Well, occasionally. But I think that the real question, Michael--" And here she hooks her index finger into the waistband of Michael's slacks, tugs naughtily, and smiles up at him like the devil herself. "--is whether it's something you want?"

Michael doesn't look away from Fiona's sly face. "I don't want it more than I want to not mess up what we're trying for."

Sometimes it's not the years of training and field experience that serve Michael well, but the moments of tired honesty he never plans. Fi softens visibly, her expression falling into touchable curves rather than sharp angles. Michael likes both sides of her equally but he appreciates this side more because it's rarer in its genuineness.

"That's unbelievably sweet, Michael."

"I meant it, Fi."

She slides closer, presses against him and tucks herself under his chin. With a deft twist, she turns them towards the man who started this discussion. He's tall--taller than Michael--and dark skinned with long dreads that he's pulled back from his face. He's sprawled in his chair and knocking back beers at a pretty decent clip. From what Michael can tell from this distance, the other man is, at most, buzzed.

Earlier, when he first caught Fiona's eye, he was on the dance floor moving with subtle grace and smooth turns. Not long after, when he caught _Michael's_ eye, he was touching a woman's cheek apologetically, shaking his head, and watching Michael and Fiona with a considering expression.

"His friend is leaving," Fiona murmurs. Michael looks around and, sure enough, the man with the shock of black hair is leaving with a pale brunette woman. Fiona spins suddenly and looks up at Michael. "He's obviously on vacation. A transient. Not someone who will be around to remind us of anything. Just...one night." She gives him her best look of temptation and Michael's training _does_ serve him well then: he manages not to say yes simply because of that look. "We can both get a little something we'd like."

Michael looks from her to the long-limbed man across the way and realizes how very pointless it is to try to resist that man, Fiona or one of Fiona's plans. "Okay."

When they get to the guy's table he glances up, unsurprised, and gives them a long narrow-eyed look. He nods, seemingly to himself, and says, "I'm Ronon."

The offer has been accepted before it's even been extended. Michael can tell. So can Fiona. She smiles and rubs back against Michael subtly. "I'm Fiona, this is Michael, and there is a motel not far from here."

Ronon gets to his feet and his linen shirt falls open, unbuttoned as it is. Michael doesn't let his gaze drop but he wants to, he really does, and Ronon seems to sense it; he drags a hand from his abdomen to his pecs and Michael catches the motion in his peripheral vision.

When Michael focuses his gaze again, Ronon is smirking. "Let's go, then."

*

Michael lets Fiona run the show as a matter of self-preservation. The aftermath of trysts like these is never predictable and he knows his best bet is to not let Fiona forget that he's here to do what _she_ directs, what _she_ requests, what _she_ asks.

But given that this is Fiona and that she is far more generous than even Michael remembers to expect, what she wants in this moment is exactly what Michael wants, and then some.

In a flurry of whispered orders that Ronon is also seemingly content to follow, both men are naked and on the bed, Michael on his stomach with Ronon sitting on the backs of his thighs. Fiona steps up next to the bed and Michael turns his head. She reaches under her dress and slides her panties off, then steps out of them.

She kneels next to the bed and sets her chin on the mattress next to Michael's head. "Do you trust me, Michael?"

On any given day, in any given situation, there are a variety of answers to that question. Here and now there is only an unequivocal, "Yes."

She kisses his lips lightly, stands and whispers in Ronon's ear for a moment, then moves out of Michael's line of sight. "I'll be over here, Michael. Watching."

Ronon stretches Michael's arms out, pins his wrists to the bed, and rubs against him, his cock hard and wet against the small of Michael's back, and his mouth sharp and wet on Michael's neck. Michael bites the pillow under his head and groans into it like he's fighting a jagged wave of pain. Ronon makes a noise and pulls back, then Fiona's voice sounds, loud and clear and slightly impatient.

"I want you to enjoy this."

Michael inhales, exhales, and pushes the tension away so that he sinks against the mattress and Ronon falls more firmly against him. "Okay?" Ronon murmurs in his ear.

Michael nods and flexes his wrists just to feel Ronon's grip around them. "Yes, okay, yes."

Ronon transfers his grip on Michael's wrists, holds both of them in one hand, and fumbles to the side with his other hand. When he touches Michael with it again his fingers are slick and wet, and he slides one, then two, then three of them into. Michael's not entirely ready for the stretch of it, for the burn, and that makes it better. When he groans with it, with the pleasure tinged with slight pain, he hears Fiona's answering moan and feels Ronon's against his back.

While Fiona watches, Michael is driven to the brink of insanity and orgasm multiple times. Ronon is relentless, and Michael doesn't know how much of it is him and how much of it is the directions Fi gave him, but it's perfect, beautiful, _gorgeous_. Ronon pushes him down, keeps him there, and takes what he wants, what Fiona asked him to take.

His fingers are thick and long, and they slide and push and pull, scrambling Michael's brains along the way. They graze and press against his prostate, make stars burst behind his tightly shut eyes, and he gasps and makes noises like a dying man.

By the time Ronon's dick replaces his fingers, Michael is wrung out, has been reduced to a mindless pile of skin and muscles, his bones lost along the way, and his arousal so intense and sustained that it's become the only thing he really knows. Ronon fucks him fast and hard and Michael's forgotten what it's like, _really_ like, and Fi and her toys don't actually get anywhere near this rawness, this almost-brutality.

Michael realizes then that Fiona understood it long before he did, and that she set out with exactly this in mind tonight.

The thought of her thinking about this, planning it, and giving it to him, brings Michael so close that he's suddenly only a hair's breadth away from coming. He hears Fi, then, in the background. Her shout is high pitched and shocked, and Michael knows she's coming, and he imagines she's worked all four of her fingers inside of herself and is frantically rubbing at her clit with her thumb.

Michael comes from that sound, that image, as much as from the way Ronon's next two thrusts nail his prostate, and he's a limp ragdoll for the last dozen thrusts it takes for Ronon to come with a growl against the back of Michael's neck.

*

When Michael wakes up he's alone in the motel bed. When he fell asleep it was with Ronon collapsed on his left and Fiona curled up against him on his right.

He hears laughter: Fiona's surprisingly girlish almost-giggles, and a dark deep rumble of amusement.

Michael sees them as soon as he opens his eyes. They're standing at the foot of the bed, facing each other. Ronon is wearing a pair of boxers, and Fiona her panties and bra.

They're both sweating.

Fi lashes out and throws a punch, while Michael watches. Ronon doesn't duck or block, just lets it land against his side with a very slight wince. Fiona's eyes glitter and spark at that, and then the pair of them erupt into a flurry of motion.

Michael sits up, immediately alert just in case, but they're simply enjoying themselves. Ronon is no amateur but Michael doesn't recognize his style, either. It's not Iraqi, or Mossad, and it's only a little bit like Michael's own training. The unfamiliarity of it trips Fiona up, gets Ronon through her guard more than once, but his punches and kicks are obviously pulled, and the ones to her face don't even _land_.

Fiona, however, isn't pulling anything at all. In fact, Michael thinks she's upped the ante a bit, is recklessly putting everything behind each hit. Ronon's lip is already swollen and his cheek is red with the dawning of a bruise. Not that he seems to care, or feel it.

Michael's not blind to the fact that Fiona and Ronon are both getting turned on. In all honesty, it's getting Michael hot just watching them: Ronon long and dark and strong, and Fiona smaller and tanned and fierce. Michael opens his mouth to say something, put an end to the moment that's making him slightly uncomfortable, but he swallows the words down at the last minute when he thinks about the night before.

Instead, he says, "Fi. Go ahead, Fi, it's okay."

Fiona knows what he means immediately, and she deflects her latest punch at the very last second and pushes her way into Ronon's personal space. She hooks her hands behind his neck and jumps. Ronon's hands automatically go to her ass to steady her and he glances at Michael, who answers the unspoken question by pushing the sheet aside and wrapping his hand around his half-hard dick.

Fiona grabs the sides of Ronon's face and pulls his mouth to hers in a kiss that is wild and still something of a fight. Michael can hear the sound Fiona makes into Ronon's mouth: triumphant and raw and violent.

Fighting is foreplay on a good day for Fiona. Today is proving to be something of a fantastic day, going by how quickly she pushes Ronon's shorts down and waves a hand demandingly in Michael's direction. He fumbles at the nightstand for a condom, unwraps it, and crawls to the end of the bed. Ronon lifts Fi out of the way, and Michael rolls the condom down his dick, his hands lingering along the way.

When Michael sits back, Fi shoves a hand between her legs and pushes her panties to the side. Ronon takes the hint, shifts her into place and all three of them groan with the first thrust.

Michael reaches for his dick with one hand, and his balls with the other, watching the way that Ronon lifts and lowers Fi onto his dick, the muscles in his arms bulging with the motion, and his hips driving him that last bit into her so that she gasps each time.

She came by way of her own touch last night, and worked herself into a frenzy with the brief but hard fight, and she's not going to last long. Michael knows the signs, can read them in the way her head's lolling back and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth.

He speeds his own hands and says, in a voice that sounds gentler than he expects it to, "Fi, touch yourself, come on, touch yourself."

Once she does it takes hardly any time for her to come. Ronon's eyes widen and Michael chokes out a laugh because he knows how tight Fi gets when she comes, how it feels like she's strangling your dick, pulling your orgasm right from your balls.

Michael knows, and he sees Ronon learn it, and he shudders and comes into his fist, gasping nonsense words. Ronon's orgasm follows right on the heels of Michael's, his body going still, his neck arching back and his mouth falling open in a wordless growl.

Ronon drops to his knees then, Fiona still held safely in his hands.

*

They take Ronon to breakfast. Michael's not sure of the etiquette in a situation like this, but he thinks that breakfast goes above and beyond the call of duty. Fi insists, however, and Ronon agrees with a shrug.

Fi does most of the talking, giving Ronon the rundown on what he should see in do while he's in town for another two days. When she mentions water-skiing and seems to be about to suggest that all three of them go, Michael steps in.

"I think it's time to part ways." He pulls out his wallet, drops enough to cover breakfast, then gets to his feet and pulls Fiona with him. Michael looks down at Ronon, who seems relieved that Michael's bringing things to a close, and smiles slightly. "Thank you, and take care of yourself."

Ronon's answering smile is somehow sweeter than Michael expected, and he's struck dumb for a brief moment before shakes it off and is overwhelmingly grateful for Fi's foresight because Ronon's as much of a temptation as Fi herself is.

Fiona smirks and blows Ronon a kiss, then slips on her over-sized sunglasses and hooks her arm through Michael's.

"I think that went very well," she comments when they've walked a few blocks. "What about you?"

Michael stares straight ahead and doesn't smile. "It didn't go terribly." Fiona kicks at his ankle. "Ouch. Don't do that." She elbows him in the ribs and he curls his body away from her but doesn't unhook his arm. "I mean it, that hurts." She pulls him to a stop, lifts one of her pointy-heeled feet threateningly, and arches a brow. Michael gives in and grins. "Okay, fine, it went well. Very well. Happy?"

Fiona pulls her shoulders back and looks happily smug. "I am."

Michael disentangles their arms and takes her hand in his. "Good."

.End


End file.
